


Baby we're such a fucking cliché

by AgingPhangirl (Madophelia)



Series: Fic Every Day in June 2017 [14]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Friends With Benefits, Hand Jobs, I'm Sorry, M/M, Smut, angsty smut, this is kinda sad guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 17:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11257623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madophelia/pseuds/AgingPhangirl
Summary: Dan hates this, the way his head spins, the way he’s panting wet heat against his best friend’s neck. Mostly, he hates how he’s a fucking cliché.





	Baby we're such a fucking cliché

**Author's Note:**

> June 19 of my Fic Every Day in June 2017 project.
> 
> We needed some angst after the fluff-fest that was Come Back Be Here. I’m sorry, this doesn’t really end happily.
> 
> Send me prompts on [Tumblr](http://agingphangirl.tumblr.com) & [Twitter](http://twitter.com/agingfangirl)

Dan hates this. The slam of a door at his back, the lips trailing down his collarbone, the way he moans into it, the way he gets hard just from that. He hates the way his head spins and the way he’s already panting wet heat against his best friend’s neck. Mostly, he hates how he’s a fucking cliché. 

He’d try to claw back some control, put some space between them before it all gets mixed up again but it’s been going on for so long now he can’t remember the mechanics of refusal. He doesn’t think he ever mastered the art of denying himself the things he wants. And he wants this. He just hates how predictable it all is, how this story has been told hundreds, thousands of times before and it never ends well. 

He tries not to think about it too much as his shirt is unbuttoned, pushed down his arms, cool air hitting his heated, feverish skin. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and tries to block out the sensation of a wet tongue circling his nipple and the accompanying high pitch keen that comes from his mouth. It’s impossible. His hands already know the shape of Phil’s shoulders, are already tugging on the hem of Phil’s t-shirt in a way that shouldn’t be practised, but is. 

The whole room seems to tip sideways as it comes off, pale perfect skin soft and warm under his fingertips. He can’t help dragging them everywhere, marvelling at the texture. He wonders what Phil thinks of him in these moments, when he gets quiet and contemplative, more wrapped up and reverent than he should be. It doesn’t fit the template for the evening, but Dan has never really been one to play by the rules.

He doesn’t seem to mind, simply goes for Dan’s belt buckle, lets the tinkling sound of leather and metal ring in the air between them like a signal bell. That in itself isn’t enough to pull Dan from his reverie, but when Phil’s callused palm, rough and dry, curls around his aching cock he is stunned back into focus. 

Phil’s mouth finds his now, tasting of the cocktails they were both drinking on the surface, and the way he always does underneath. Dan doesn’t want to be familiar with the nuances of it but there it is. Seven years of this, repeated and repeated, the same mistake over and over, and he still can’t say no. He won’t. Because despite the knowledge that it’s bad, despite the way it rips at his heart when the sun comes up, and despite the fucking cliché, Dan has never been able to resist it when Phil looks at him with his unblinking eyes and a cocked eyebrow. It’s the same look he’s had since he was twenty-two and gazing at him up close in the bedroom at Phil’s family home. Dan reacts now the same way he did then, giving himself over to it and loving every second.

Phil’s hand is moving steadily over him and Dan lets his hips thrust in time with it, hearing the gentle rattle of the door at his back and not caring if his neighbours might hear the rhythmic sound and guess what’s going on. He can’t care, not when Phil’s thumb drags through the slit at the tip of his cock, collecting the dribble of precum and smearing it over his shaft in lubrication. 

“Ah!” Dan cries out, the flood of pleasure in his groin too much and his knees give out, just slightly, so that he bobs where he’s stood. 

Phil always knows when it’s time to move, but he doesn’t take him by the wrist, doesn’t lead him to a bedroom and press him firmly into the mattress as he has so many times before. Instead he grabs him, whirling him around by his shoulders and pushing him gently down onto the stairs in their hallway. Dan’s legs collide and he sits, a firm bump on the carpet, legs tangled in his jeans at half mast around his thighs. 

Phil drops to the floor before him, pulling the rest of Dan's clothes from him with ease, folding his long legs underneath himself and placing a hand on each of Dan’s knees and spreading them apart. He ducks between them so that the sensitive part of Dan’s inner thigh slides along the warm skin of Phil’s waist, and just along the top of his denim waistband. He kisses Dan again, firm and hot and Dan can’t help lifting a knee up to curve over his hip, letting himself be tipped backwards. Phil’s hand slips under his leg, gripping at the back of Dan’s thigh, sliding upward to the curve just under his buttcheek. He runs his fingers along the swell of it, it tickles, it feels electric and Dan breaks out in goosebumps and moans a little louder. 

When will it end? How can he break this habit of falling into this with Phil whenever they drink, when there’s a low moment, when either of them suggest it out of sheer boredom. It can’t go on like this, it’s a powder keg waiting to explode, all it will take is the single spark of either of them acknowledging it in moments it isn’t happening and the whole picture would crumble. 

Dan can hear the mantra of Phil's name like a prayer on his lips, pleading for something, though he doesn't know what. 

“What do you want?” Phil asks in his ear, a filthy whisper that he can feel as well as hear. 

Dan grasps at Phil’s shoulder, gripping tight like he's holding on to prevent himself falling. Maybe he is. 

“You,” Dan murmurs, the words coming without my thought. There isn't room in his head for thought, not when it's jumbled with vodka and the constant unrelenting mantra of Phil Phil Phil. “Just you. Please.”

It will be forgiven in the morning, forgotten even. It always is. The list of things Dan can get away with in moments like this, but is forbidden from doing when the sun is up and neither of them are intoxicated, is long.

Sometimes he toys with what would happen if he pressed a soft kiss to Phil's mouth in passing. Caught him off guard. Would his breath hitch? Would his cheeks flush? Would he yell or push Dan away? 

The urge grabs at him often, but the fear of rejection keeps him from acting upon it.

He'll settle for this. For making this mistake repeatedly, even though he knows this is headed for disaster too. There's no logic to it, but he kind of doesn't want there to be. The thrill of it being illogical is probably the best part.

Dan is caught off guard when Phil’s mouth engulfs his cock. A high pitched moan crawls up from his chest and throat and into the air around them. They’re crammed awkwardly onto the stairs, their long limbs too gangly and sprawling for the small space, but Phil’s head is tucked between his legs and he’s pinned by a steadying hand on his hip and despite the discomfort, he really doesn’t want to move. 

He slides a hand into Phil’s hair the way he wants to, the way he always does. He shouldn’t have habits for this, no moment should be practised and well-known but it is and he curses the way Phil’s soft hair feels familiar in his hand and the vibrations on his cock when he pulls slightly and Phil moans are predicted and exactly as he wants them. It’s troubling, but he’s having a hard time really focussing on it, the alcohol and heady sensation of Phil making him all the more intoxicated as time goes on. 

Phil is rough in all the right ways, hollowing his cheeks and sinking down on Dan’s length with ease. Though his eyes are heavy lidded, drooping with the swirl of drunken lethargy and the tight wet heat on his cock spiking pleasure through him, he can’t take them off Phil, watching his pink mouth stretch around his aching cock, a sliver of saliva pooling in the corners of his mouth. Phil’s eye flick up to look at him and Dan is scrabbling at his shoulders, pushing him away with a whine. 

“M’gunna come if you carry on,” He informs his friend.

He’s forgotten that that is entirely the point of this exercise. He knows that if he does it will only be minutes before the whole thing is over and he can’t let that happen. He wants to drag this out, to let it linger for a moment, so he can pretend it isn’t something temporary, so he can lie to himself and insist he won’t feel that familiar ache in his chest when he wakes up tomorrow. 

Phil is only minutely surprised at Dan’s pushing hand, he goes willingly, rocking back to sit on his heels. Dan is scrabbling up, putting too much pressure on his own wrists as he lifts himself off the stairs and crawls to knock Phil backwards onto the small patch of carpet at the bottom of their stairs. There definitely isn’t enough room for them to be here, and he vaguely registers the sound of Phil’s head coming down with a soft thud. Phil doesn’t complain at the impact, just groans low in his throat as Dan fumbles with his fly, his thick drink-numbed fingers clumsy as they dive into Phil’s underwear. 

“Yes,” Phil hisses as Dan’s fingers curl around him, hard and leaking. 

He smears his hand around, pulling until his cock is in the open air and his fist is sliding slick and sticky over him, a fluid motion that has Phil bucking his hips up. 

Dan wastes no time ducking his head to taste, lapping his tongue at the slit and catching the beading pearlescent drops of fluid collected there. 

Phil hums and slides his fingers into the hair at the nape of Dan’s neck, palm curved to cup around his occipital bone. Dan lets the pressure of the hand ease him down, opening his mouth and sinking on to Phil’s length, hollowing his cheek wantonly and sucking long and hard. 

Phil groans and Dan lets his jaw relax to take more of him down. The blunt tip of Phil’s cock hits the back of his throat and a short choked noise escapes him before he settles into a rhythm he’s comfortable with. 

“Ah!” Phil vocalises and Dan swirls his tongue on the sensitive underside, flicking it delicately in a way he knows Phil likes. 

And this is the problem, because he knows what Phil likes. There is no reason for someone to know how their best friend likes having their dick sucked, but then there is no reason for said best friend to be on his knees in their tiny hallway doing the actual sucking. 

There’s no reason for any of it except the driving force of _more more more don’t stop_ thrumming through him on a loop. 

“I--” Phil attempts, “I’m gunna…” 

He trails off, letting the cant of his hips speak volumes, Dan can sense that he’s close and doesn’t know whether to prolong it or not, pull back and watch Phil struggle slightly, straining for a release that Dan isn’t giving him. 

“Fuck,” Phil swears, which is rare in itself, and as such, is probably what causes Dan to lose concentration enough to let himself be moved when Phil grabs at him to stop. He grips in Dan’s shirt, pulling him up and over and joining their mouths together again in a heated, lingering kiss. 

Phil’s tongue tastes of him, and he’s sure that he tastes of Phil and their mouths work together frantically, pushing insistently into each other, letting their bodies line up and their erections slide together, saliva-slick and burning.

Dan reaches a hand down, marvelling at the novelty of doing this face to face, not one of them subservient on his knees or taking the other from behind, crazed and just the right side of unhinged. He wraps his palm around both of them, slightly off-kilter and out of control with how good it feels to have Phil’s length pressed up against his own as he strokes. It’s making him desperate, the hot pant Phil lets out directly into Dan’s mouth, followed by a moan that Dan swallows down into a frenzied kiss. 

It’s all sensation from there, deft movements throwing sparks of pleasure over his skin where Phil sinks his teeth into Dan’s throat with the precise amount of pressure he needs to earn a loud almost-scream. Their tongues wind around each other, lazily almost, smooth and unreserved in their movements but slow enough because they know each other, in a way that pulls on Dan’s chest. 

He doesn’t usually start feeling this until afterwards. The aching yank of emotion beneath his ribs, that pit that forms where everything else is swallowed except the remaining sense that this is not the whole of it, a temporary fix to a bigger much less spoken problem. It’s sharp and glossy like the wet blade of a knife shoved between his ribs and he’s just fucked up enough that it is that sensation that sends him over the edge. 

It’s all so mixed up, friendship and Phil and sex and longing, that he can’t differentiate between them all any more. He can feel the intense pleasure of Phil’s skin hot against his, the bite of pain on his collarbone, all churned up with the want and sadness that feels too large to be housed in his body but is there all the same. It’s Phil, who he knows, who is so close, so pressed into his skin and personality and yet so fucking untouchable. But it’s all so intertwined together than Dan barely knows the difference between his heart being ripped out and coming so violently that he screams, spilling over his own hand and Phil’s cock. 

Phil follows after without the same fanfare and Dan has to blink around the tears in his eyes to watch as Phil’s face shifts into that beautiful expression of pure bliss. 

Dan is spent and tacky with their orgasms and he slips into the lack of space next to Phil so that Phil can shift, stand, stretch his limbs. 

“You going to bed?” Phil asks, blinking down at him where he’s still supine on the floor, unable to move.

He nods, head rubbing against the hard scratch of the carpet. There is nothing else, no words of comfort, because Phil has never needed to offer them before so what should be so different this time? There is only the silence of the hall, the shuffle of Phil’s footsteps on the stairs and the blood rushing in Dan’s ears. 

He can’t stay here all night, spiritless and despondent on the carpet of their hallway, but he can’t summon the urge to move yet, to face whatever it is waiting for him on the other side of this. He knows it will be more of the same, tomorrow they will return to what they do best, the practise of being best friends. It will not be awkward, it never is, but they will not speak of it. He will be acquiescent with Phil’s stoicism, letting it blanket them and cover up their wounds. They will be normal, quiet, put back together.

This is how it will be, but all the while convincing himself that he won’t give in next time, that they can't continue on like this, that the only sensible thing to do it to end it. And yet, giving in when Phil looks at him, taking what he can get when it is offered and picking up the pieces afterwards. It won’t stop, the routine too well established, the cliche too fucking ingrained in them to end now. Round and round they will go, the never ending cycle of this and that compounded with denial and avoidance. 

He picks himself up off the floor and lets the cycle start over.


End file.
